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CH.14: The War Party in the Slytherin Commons

Of all the houses, Ravenclaw was the only one that was even remotely close to Slytherin. Therefore, it was of little surprise that, by 10:20, the only students non-Slytherins present in the Slytherin common room were Luna Lovegood, Cho Chang, Terry Boot, and Roger Davies. By 10:30, Padma Patil had joined her housemates, dragging her twin along (bringing the number of outsiders to 5 Ravenclaws and 1 Gryffindor; of the Slytherin house, only fifth through seventh years were permitted to be present, bringing their attendance to around 30, a number that fluctuated as various members retired and returned from their dorms).

The common room had been decorated exquisitely. Twisted silver streamers hung along the ceiling and walls, charmed to spin slowly and sparkle like a disco ball. Along one side of room, the six dark green couches had been moved to create three enclaves, each seating ten people with only a minimum of squeeze. The wall that these couches were set perpendicular to sported soft, low lightening that gently caressed the bodies there. Separating the couches from the rest of the room was a row of dark oak tables lit by green illumination and laden with cakes, crisps and dip, mini sandwiches and pizzas, chips [A/N: French fries for American readers], two vegetable platters, and two meat and cheese platters. And, of course, there were three large porcelain bowls full of punches of various strengths and flavors. The end table furthest from the entrance was clearly the beverage table: two kegs of butterbeer were stationed on either side of the table, while the surface was littered with dozens of mixers and liquors, from wizarding drinks like fire whiskey and genie gin to muggle classics like Smirnoff vodka and Jose Cuervo tequila.

The space on the other side of the table division had been turned into a dance floor, with strobe lights alternatively flashing white and black light from the furthest wall, highlighting the undulating figures on the floor. Dance music – sometimes techno or rave, sometimes hip hop, plus the occasional subdued slow dance music – blared vociferously on this side of the room, a noise damper having been placed on the opposite side so that people could talk comfortably to the background music. Various traces of smoke could be detected throughout the room, from tobacco, wizard's weed, and. . . was that opium? It didn't matter; Snape always covered for his house, and turned a blind eye to such illegal activities, provided no one was hurt.

This was the scene that the Golden Trio walked into at 10:40, after Hermione had spent much of the evening badgering her two friends at every step (convincing them to dress appropriately had been a total nightmare, and the end result was still less than satisfactory). While the Ravenclaws had been admitted easily, and Parvarti with a minimum of suspicion (she and her sister were notoriously social), the entrance of Granger, Potter, and the Weasel brought the entire gathering to a temporary standstill.

The Gryffindors couldn't help but gape in surprise: the setup far exceeded anything they could have expected. The music was louder, the lightening more exotic, the people more uninhibited, the alcohol more abundant, the drugs more prevalent, and. . . the atmosphere more overpowering.

A giant seventh year, as tall as Ron but far more bulky, was suddenly blocking their view of the thirtysomething pairs of eyes trained on them; their peripheral vision was further blocked as two other goons took up position on either side of the monstrosity. "Just what do you think you are doing here?," he growled menacingly. Harry heard Ron gulp loudly.

DM, dressed in a gray turtleneck and dress slacks, preempted any escalation of hostilities by shoving the Vilborne aside to make room for him and his own posse, consisting of Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson. A little further into the shadows, Bulstrode, Zabini, Nott, and a few others could be seen waiting as reinforcements. "They are my guests, and better be treated as such," he stated coldly, dangerously. The Gryffindors (and, indeed, many of Slytherin spectators) found themselves immediately hypnotized by the interaction.

Vilborne and a couple others were getting sick of taking orders from the unbalanced traitorous version of the old Draco Malfoy, and this was the final straw. "No, Malfoy. YOU are the guest here. And you are very close to wearing out your welcome," Vilborne growled threateningly.

Crabbe and Goyle stepped forward to do something about this miscreant, but DM extended two steel arms in either direction to block their actions and narrowed his eyes to hateful slits. The more sensitive students present could feel a slight change in the atmosphere, as though free magic were building up in the air, just waiting to manifest and jump to life. Both Hermione and Harry felt it, and vaguely recognized it as their subconscious memories flashed back to the morning DM had gotten himself hit by a magical lightening. Everyone was tense and on edge.

"I still haven't thanked you for ganging up on me last month," DM hissed gravely through clenched teeth. "Three against one, me not able to use my wand. That wasn't a fair fight, Vilborne."

Vilborne stepped forward challengingly. "Fair? What are we, Gryffindors?"

DM smirked ruthlessly. "No, we're not."

He made the first move, reaching out to shove the gargantuan boy. He couldn't explain it: he could feel the rage, the energy, the power. It was as sharp and explosive as before, but this time he felt detached from it. He felt in control. . . of something. And it lashed out when he did, hurling the boy across the room to crash into the ash and metal of the dead fire place. In the attention being paid to DM and Vilborne, the latter's two supporters melted into the staring crowd.

DM turned back to the three Gryffindors, who had still not managed a single word since entrance, and he quickly decided that it was best to keep it that way. It was time to get this party back on track. He reached forward and grabbed Granger's and Potter's unwilling hands and pulled them towards the dance floor. The two tried to voice their objections, but DM ignored them entirely, making eye contact first with the Weasel, "Weasley," and then with Parkinson, "Pansy. Come one. This is a party people!"

Once out on the dance floor, DM dropped their hands and began dancing, to be joined almost immediately by Pansy. DM may have hated the body that had belonged to Malfoy, but it didn't affect his dancing: his body knew how to move itself – gyrating, bending, jumping, kicking, swinging in perfect time with the music – and Pansy was hardly any less competent. Indeed, in a matter of moments, the dance floor was alive again with moving bodies, as though nothing had happened, and only the Golden Trio were left awkwardly still in the middle.

"Well, I guess we should, uh, dance." Surprisingly, it was Ron who made the suggestion, despite having two left feet. The truth about Ron was that, even though he hated the fact that the Slytherins were the ones holding the party, he had always wanted to part of events like these – dancing, drinking, and crazy happenings. Years of hearing stories from the Bill, Charlie, and the twins about having wild times into the wee hours of the morning had left him craving such experiences. The opportunity had just never presented itself until now, and he found his repressed desire to be a teenage party animal quite outweighed his somewhat irrational (or was it jealous?) dislike of Slytherins.

Both Hermione and Harry looked at him as though he had just grown a third head, but Ron was feeling drunk with the atmosphere, so he just smiled goofily and took Hermione's hand.

"Ron. . .," but it was too late, Ron was already excitedly engaging in what appeared to be the chicken dance, and his grip on her arm clearly indicated that she was along for the ride. She gave an apologetic glance at Harry then redirected her efforts into making her and her partner look a little less foolish.

Harry looked around him desperately, like a lost boy. . . which he was: a lost Gryffindor on a Slytherin dance floor. And the aor was intoxicating, the lights dizzying, the music deafening, and the bodies moving, sweating, glistening. . .

Then Parkinson was in front of him, hips swiveling, chest heaving, blond hair tumbling down on exposed cleavage, her hands on his waist pulling him closer, her doe eyes saying oh merlin, come fuck me. . . and where the fuck was Malfoy?

He barely had time to ask himself the question before DM materialized behind Pansy, hands on her hips, swaying to her rhythm, eyes locked with Harry's but their expression unreadable. Then he felt smooth, masculine hands taking his own, placing them on a soft, feminine waist, and DM's sexy lips quirked up. "Dance, Potter," he mouthed over the music, and Harry found himself dancing.

DM was only part of their threesome for a minute or so before breaking off with a last enigmatic smile to dance alone. Parkinson was guiding Harry's moves, so he didn't dare leave her, but his eyes were fixed longingly on the incomparable blond. His head was thrown back, his whole body leaning back as he moved, he seemed like a wolf howling to the moon, or like an ancient warrior dancing for the gods to bring him victory. As the night progressed, occasionally others would approach to dance with him, but he would only tolerate their presence for a minute or two before pushing them away. The Prince of Slytherin danced gloriously; and he danced alone.

At that moment there was nothing Harry wanted more than to be the one to dance with him.

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Harry had a surprisingly good time on the dance floor (dancing with Pansy, then Padma and Parvati together), and it took him quite a while to go investigate the goings on of the food and beverages tables. He made his way over to where Hermione (and quite a few Slytherins) stood with a skeptical expression, only to be himself dumbfounded by what he saw: Crabbe and Ron were sitting side by side in front of two huge plates of meatloaf, shoveling food down their gullets as if their was no tomorrow.

It was a disgusting site. Ron and Crabbe were easily two of the most piggy eaters in the entire school (though Goyle could certainly give either a run for their money; he, however, was otherwise engaged on one of the couches with Luna Lovegood), and both were at the height of their pigginess at the moment. Chunks of meat and vegetable were flying in every direction, as various spectators squealed and tried to jump out of the way, while an entire array of animal sounds were emanating from the two eaters.

Harry poked Hermione (who he noticed was gripping a butterbeer) to get her attention. "What the hell?"

Hermione looked like she had given up on something that even she didn't know the identity of. "Oh, Harry, it's terrible. Ron decided to try some genie gin, and now those two are having an eating contest."

Harry blinked expressionlessly for a moment before deciding that he really didn't want to be part of this scene at all. "Fabulous. Well, I'm going to the drink table," he deadpanned, and moved away as quickly as possible.

Dehydrated from the dance floor, he quickly downed his first glass of punch, and was pouring another when none other than Cho Chang came up to him and gave him a huge hug. "Harry!," she slurred loudly.

"Cho," Harry responded warily. Chang looked positively shitfaced, leaning on Harry for support, glazed eyes, and a goofy grin on her face. She still looked kinda hot though, with her fit body and cute, round face.

"You don't talk to me anymore, Harry," she accused petulantly, a luscious lower lip stuck out poutingly.

"That's not true. I talk to you in DA," Harry defended; but he knew she was right. He didn't want anything to do with her after the debacle last year. He couldn't help but think of her and want to flee.

"It's not the same." Now her face was very close to his and he could definitely smell a strong stench of liquor – straight tequila if he'd had to guess. He vaguely remembered some of the students doing body shots while he had been dancing, perhaps she was one of them? If she was, she apparently didn't feel as though she had gotten enough action that way. "Kiss me, Harry!"

He tried to hold her back, but her lips were on his, moving drunkenly, and a wet tongue was licking at him, and it was not sexy at all. He pulled away in disgust. "Cho! You're drunk!"

Cho looked upset, as though she was either going to cry or attack him. Luckily, Roger Davies saved his ass, walking over looking exhausted and a little ill. "Hey Harry. Cho, I'm feeling a bit sick, I think I'm going to head back."

"Roger, man, you've gotta take her with you. She's completed wasted!," Harry blurted desperately.

"No, I'm not!," Cho replied indignantly. Roger looked from Harry's pleading expression to Cho's flushed face and unfocused pupils.

"Come on, Cho, lets go," Roger sighed, taking her arm.

She looked about to argue when a thought hit her and she giggled. "Hey, that rhymes! You're a poet and you didn't know it. My name is Cho and I gotta go, as you should know. . ."

Roger rolled his eyes at Harry and began pulling the drunk Ravenclaw to the door. Harry let out a breath of relief and downed his second glass of punch. Was it just him, or did it taste rather strong?

As if reading his thoughts, DM was suddenly before him. "Be careful, Potter. I know for a fact that Millicent mixed that batch, which always means that its victims can account for at least half of the bodies passed out on the floor the next morning."

Harry gave a brief shake of his head before focusing on Malfoy. The Slytherin's eyes were sharp, clearly not subjected to any alcohol, but he did have a cigarette held between his fingers. And the fetching gray turtleneck he had been wearing previously had completely disappeared, replaced only with a white wifebeater that was soaked with sweat and clung provocatively to the muscles of his chest and abdomen. Harry wanted to slap himself for spending so much time noticing these details about Malfoy and a scowl made its way unbidden to his face. What the hell was wrong? Didn't he have enough shit to deal with at the moment?

Still, it was his turn to talk, and he forced out something, "Slytherin certainly knows how to throw a party. If we ever decide that getting Voldemort to drink himself to death or OD, we'll know who to call."

DM was a little startled by Harry's comment, then he laughed. It was a natural, real laugh, and only lasted a few seconds, but it was long enough. It was a beautiful, vivacious sound, the first laugh Harry had heard from Malfoy that hadn't been malicious or mocking. His heart skipped a beat and he felt flutters in his stomach. The alcohol let him admit to himself that he ached. Perhaps it was just hormonal teenage lust, but he really really wanted the boy before him, the boy who had been his rival for five years, the boy he barely knew. He wanted to touch him, he wanted to be liked by him, he wanted to know him.

"If you think this is deadly, you should see what is going on in the fifth year girls' dorm. Muggle cocaine, Potter. If Voldemort ever got a hold of that shit, he either self destruct or become a fucking god." He took a drag of his cigarette.

Harry didn't know whether to concentrate his slightly fuzzy mind on those lips pursed around that infernal cancer stick, or to be horrified by the fact that hard core drugs were going down nearby. "Should I be worried?," he asked without thinking any further.

DM smirked. "Nah. These girls know what they're doing. Besides, Voldemort wouldn't be caught dead do muggle drugs."

Harry didn't know what to say, and felt a little uncomfortable with their unequal footing. Malfoy didn't have to deal with distracting and lustful thoughts, nor did he appear to be at all affected by alcohol (though really, who would know with his psychotic self?).

"Don't you drink?" Ug, another stupid question chalked up to the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Make-An-Ass-Out-Of-Himself-In-Front-of-Draco-Malfoy.

DM shook his head. "Malfoy – uh, well, I used to, but I doubt lowered inhibitions would be good for me in this state. I find it hard enough not to attack half the people in this room that have hit on me."

Fuck, this conversation just kept on getting worse and worse. Harry didn't want to think about how everyone wanted a piece of the super sexy, somewhat unstable Draco Malfoy. Why the hell was he here submitting himself to this anyway? Still, he couldn't help but pick up on the boy's slip of referring to himself in the third person. It was. . . endearing, and somehow felt very intimate.

Harry rubbed eyes for a moment to clear his mind, and gathered his wits for a moment in order to speak deliberately. "Why did you invite us here, Diem?"

Harry had simply supplanted his usual 'Malfoy' with 'Diem' as a gesture of cooperation, and of recognition of their conversation earlier in the week, but he couldn't have predicted the effect it would have of DM. He didn't smile, or even move a single facial muscle; he just lurched forward, dropping his cigarette, and grabbed Harry in an awkward and strangely personal hug. Blond hair could be felt brushing Harry's cheek, and he froze, half excited and half terrified, waiting in intense anticipation for what would happen next.

"Thank you," DM whispered hoarsely. He wasn't sure why he had the reacted the way he had, just that he had felt so grateful and validated for being addressed in such a way. He was neither Draco, nor Malfoy, and now someone else had recognized it too. Though the real reason he had invited the Gryffindors had simply been that he wanted to make some attempt to mend hostilities (as they themselves had made), he felt no qualms in answering, "For that. I invited you to hear you call me Diem."

DM pulled away from Harry to see his reaction: the raven haired boy looked stupefied, as though he had no idea what had hit him. It was kind of cute, and DM smiled openly. He liked this humor, these positive emotions, that he felt in Potter's presence. It felt so good to be happy, if only for a few moments. It felt like a reason to keep living, to fight on. Months of rage and despair had made recently achieved moments of pleasure infinitely more appreciated.

"Enjoy yourself, Potter. I think I'm going to retire before the dungeons devolve into a drunken orgy." DM turned to leave, but Harry's gut forced him into action. He just couldn't let the night end like that.

"Wait!"

DM stopped and looked over his shoulder with an amused smile and a cocked eyebrow. Harry cleared his throat nervously. "You can call me Harry."

DM's expression didn't change, though he dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Good night, Harry."

Then he headed off into the crowd, in the vague direction of the dorms. Harry was left jittery and unwilling to think of the happenings of the last half hour. He poured himself a third cup of punch, promptly downed it, then set off to find Hermione and Ron before the orgy set in.

It took a good ten minutes to finally find them curled up on a couch making out, with a couple of stoned Slytherins laughing at them from the opposite couch. Harry groaned. Tomorrow was going to be one hell of a day.

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PARTY ON my friends and readers! (Gee, I wish I would get invited to a Slytherin party.) Please review!